


Stipulations

by Janekfan



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Caretaking, Crying, Emotional Manipulation, Flashbacks, Gen, I love Basira but 177 had me feeling things, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Jon just wants to be useful, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Alice "Daisy" Tonner Are Best Friends, Manipulation, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, PTSD, Police Brutality, Scratching, Self-Harm, Starvation, Victim Blaming, You know what? Not a fan of Jon's Grandmother, deprivation used as control
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:02:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26366131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janekfan/pseuds/Janekfan
Summary: Jon trades usefulness for statements.
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Alice "Daisy" Tonner
Comments: 34
Kudos: 363





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Kind of heavy? Maybe? If you've experienced some of these themes? Or all of them? At once? I just love to project all over these characters soooo...sorry Jon. You must bear the brunt of my emotional ills :D
> 
> Basira is an interesting character to me. Like she's been kept in the dark, Jon has lied and been weird and is "eating" people's fears and I get it? But 177, oof. Take your victim blaming elsewhere! Especially considering she's used him for his powers before and is hypocritical when it comes to Daisy. 
> 
> So yeah. Got feels. Here they are all spilled over a page :D

Weary, the avatar of the Beholding slipped between shadows in the Institute’s dark corridors, lingering at the door behind which were the key to relieving his acute suffering. He didn’t even notice that his trembling fingers were gripping the handle so tightly they ached, or that his face was pressed against the rough surface of the wood until a sharp sound from behind jolted him out of his ravenous longing. 

“ _Jon_.” 

Basira. Judging from the livid expression on her face, she’d been repeating his name and was not well pleased with what she saw if the hand on her gun was any indication. 

“Step. Away.” And the only reason he did, he _could_ was the whisper of fear the Eye could sense, and he was drawn to it like a moth to a flame. “Stop.” Whatever was left of Jon obeyed, his own fear of her very real consequences overriding the desire to _takefeedriptearsatiate_ hunger pangs so deep and ingrained that a part of him he couldn’t remember what it was anymore to not feel starved. _Who_ was he without this _need_? 

Who was he that Basira needed to be afraid of him?

“Ba--”

“Shut up.” He did, with the muted click of teeth and a dry swallow. Without the singular focus of what lay behind the door he felt shaky, weak. Like at any moment his legs would give way and he’d be left here on the floor. It happened sometimes. “What are you doing?” What was he doing? She turned from him. “Nevermind. Come with me.” 

“Wh’where?” The fierce glare over her shoulder made him flinch and he followed her without any more questions into his office. 

Oh.

“Sit down.” Gratefully. The last time she’d had him stand and, well. 

“B’Basira.” He tried again, ashamed of the pleading note that crept into his voice. He wasn’t well. He. He didn’t want to do this but even so, her disgusted disappointment was cutting. He didn’t need to Know to know that she thought him pathetic, that she thought if only he was stronger they wouldn’t have this _problem_ , this _inconvenience_. This was the only thing he was good for. If he could turn his powers into a tool for them then it proved there was still something human in him, right? Basira was helping him hold onto it, that’s why she asked this of him, because it was helping. From a folder under her arm she pulled a mugshot, sliding it across the desk. Jon didn’t look. He didn’t have to. 

“Where is he?” He tried to resist, like she was the one who held the power of compulsion and not him, but he wanted to help. More than anything, he wanted to help fix what he’d done. The headache behind his eyes worsened when the Eye opened, demanding payment he didn’t have to give and dredging up what he needed to Know like drawing water from a depthless well. Static rose in a tide, angry, loud, greedy and he didn’t, there wasn’t enough left, like wringing blood from a stone.

Feed your god, or your god will feed on you. 

Basira’s lead pooled on his tongue and fell from his lips and it tasted like ash and ink as the static finally overwhelmed him, rising in a wave, deafening, roaring, punishing him for daring to demand Knowledge for free. 

Later. Minutes. Days. Weeks. _Years_ later Jon woke to the rasp of a statement slipping under his door and he descended on it like a vulture, ugly and clawing, weeping with this taste of relief, no matter how small. He read it again and again, the metaphysical equivalent of licking his plate clean and when the static faded and the green was gone from his eyes, Jon jerked back to awareness with a sharp gasp, nauseated with dread realization. Curling up right where he was, Jon covered his face in both hands, stifling his noise and hiding his tears even though no one was left but him. 

Hollow in his very bones, like a bird, Jon wished more than anything to fly away from this prison, to somewhere, anywhere, that did not _hurt_. He wandered familiar halls as an apparition of hunger, subsisting on sips of air and the dust of infinite statements and it felt like punishment. To be kept alive by the Beholding even as it killed him letter by word by sentence by paragraph by--

The tea kettle. Cold. Like him. Frozen and shivering and missing so badly his heart throbbed painfully in his narrow chest. Jon ended up here more often than he wanted to admit. It was a comfort. Security. The last remnant of someone who tolerated him, proof someone had once known him enough to care for him. 

Someone else he’d thrown away. 

Despite their strained relationship, he was so thankful he still had Basira, that she hadn’t left him in this place alone, even though he knew she couldn’t leave because of him. But he’d always been selfish; there was no reason would that change now. But he could make it up to her. If he was good, if he was helpful, she would reward him and that was more kindness than he deserved. Because he wasn’t supposed to have statements anymore. He was beating this “addiction” she called it. If he could be strong, she wouldn’t have to keep them under lock and key and she knew he wasn’t. He was lucky she was there to do this for him. To protect him when everyone else had gone. 

On the days where he couldn’t make it to the tea kettle, Jon lay as still as possible in his office, the migraine caused by demands he didn’t have the resources to spend and spent anyway so bad it took up all the space he had left for worrying about other things. On those days, the hunger was almost quiet, body too full of aches for any one part of him to direct his attention. 

Then he lost his ribs. No. Not lost. He had one. Gave the other away. For Daisy. For Basira and he walked into the earth with every intention of rescuing a very important person. The Buried, the Choke, took all the hungry away and replaced it with fear and when he found Daisy and hooked their fingers together in the damp filth of this place, this eternal coffin unending, he never let go. 

And still he failed her. 

Until he was saved by the familiar hum and hiss of the tape recorders burrowed into his ears and refused to be ignored and they walked out. 

Mostly whole. 

Daisy. His salvation. His _chance_ to prove he could still be good, passed triumphantly into Basira’s waiting arms. Despite himself, Jon knew he was beaming as much as he still could, hoping for a morsel of praise, the yearning for it almost as debilitating as the emptiness inside him. There was nothing, as he knew there would be, as Basira whisked Daisy away for medical attention and assessment which of course, was a much higher priority than soothing the ego of a monster. The room reeked of the Lonely, made his skin itch and his blood burn because he recognized a familiarity, had laid unconscious claim to it as an assistant. He was the Archivist. It was his job to protect his assistants and though he’d done a piss poor job of it thus far, it didn’t stop him from wanting to unleash his latent power on such a brazen entity that dared touch what was his. He would very much enjoy taking it apart when the time came.

Shaking his head to clear it of these new and aggressive thoughts, Jon stumbled away to clean up, ready to retreat into his sanctuary and rest for a little while until he could be useful again. 

It was no longer the kettle he visited. It was the door. 

Locked. 

Barred. 

Basira had forgotten him in favor of Daisy. Of course, she needed her. And didn’t need him for leads and without that slim hope he might get a statement out of it, he found himself going a bit mad with hunger. He Knew where they were in the building, none of them could leave it for long, and the last ounces of his dwindling control were funneled into stopping himself begging for her help.

Basira didn’t, she wouldn’t _like_ that. 

Calm. Quiet. Useful. Out of the way. He could be those things. She liked those things. 

Jon couldn’t leave the door. Not now when the proximity quelled the myriad whispers overlapping in his mind like a thousand trains of thought. If he listened hard enough, curled up close enough, he could hear them tucked away in their folders and envelopes nestled in boxes, rows of boxes, so many boxes he could eat and eat until, until maybe--

“What are you doing?” With sore, heavy eyes Jon looked up into Basira’s harsh and unforgiving stare and wished for a glimpse of understanding or kindness. “What have you done to your hands?” His hands? It wasn’t him examining his torn up fingers, skin slowly knitting back together, it wasn’t him feeling the twinges of splinters dug in under his broken nails or noticing the smears of red, ruby, rust blood adorning the door like an animal tried to claw their way out. But it was him. Wasn’t it? Trying to claw his way in. 

And he didn’t remember doing it.

“I...I, I d’d’dunno.” 

“You “dunno?”” She didn’t believe him. And why would she when all he’d done is lie. Like a cat, he was lifted by the bunched up collar at the back of his neck, pushed, stumbling, down the corridors and held at arm's length. Even so, the warmth from her hand, the electric shock her touch sent racing down his spine was heady and distracting. He hadn’t been touched in so long and far too soon it was over as she shoved him into his chair in his office in his wing in his _cage_ of his own making before backing away and locking the door behind her. 

Quiet, quiet, quiet. 

If he was quiet she would let him out. He just needed to be patient. That’s all. He was selfish, taking time away from Daisy when she needed it most. Basira did the right thing, protected him from himself. He was lucky to have someone who cared like that, to make the hardest decisions for him and so sorry that he kept causing her problems.

He curled beneath his desk, the small space comforting and contained, keeping all his pieces together as he lost hold of them one by one. So tired, so _sick_ , he tried to sleep and it just wouldn’t come where he was huddled around the aching empty abyss in his body. It was all he could think about, a statement, just one. Please. Anything, a taste. Pacing like a caged tiger when he had a rare burst of frenetic energy, laying on the floor of his office when he collapsed, tugging listlessly at the handle of the door. Crying, crying, crying in his hiding spot but always silent. It wouldn’t do to be heard. Unseen and not heard. That was the best way. And then she would let him out. 

She always let him out.


	2. Chapter 2

Why wasn’t she letting him out? 

Impatient. Hush. Stop whinging. 

Maybe. If he was quiet, and he was very good at being quiet. He could sneak away. Just one statement. A short one. Just one. And then he’d return to his office. Just one. Just one. He was so hollow, just one couldn’t hurt, not when he was already hurting, clawing, scratching at his arms, trying to dig out the hungry and never making it deep enough and this new hurt never lasted long enough to erase the old, just one. 

Just _one_.

He Knew how to pick locks. 

He Knew how to make a rudimentary lockpick set from the paper clips and pen nibs in his desk and while his quaking fingers made the task more difficult, he was confident they would work on these old doors. 

He spent the next few hours waiting for dark, for them to sleep. It was easier now that he had a goal. That relief was closer than it had been in a long, long time. 

Patient. Be patient. 

Jon pressed the heel of one hand against his eye, willing the pounding to stop and watching stars blossom and burst in supernova blooms and when it was time, he lurched to bare feet, silent feet, and unlocked the door.

It was easy to remember when he used to creep through the darkness like this in his grandmother’s house, shameful when he realized he was in the same position now. Starving and at his wit’s end with the gnawing, fine edge of the knife cutting into his softest parts. Being sent to bed without supper was one way to manage a precocious child and he learned to do without. If he was quiet, she would sleep through the night. Even if she did wake, the dark made it easier to hide, to wedge his tiny self into the deepest shadows and hold his breath until she went back to bed, afraid she would hear his heart hammering a bruising tattoo behind his breastbone. He could smell the old musty scents of vintage furniture, mold and mildew creeping up from the soil beneath their house but he was here, following a siren song, the promise of fear spread over him like a warm quilt. The Eye was encouraging. Cajoling even. Something like praise in the way its whispers curled ever so gently around his ears, soothing, consoling. Soon. Soon it won’t hurt like this. I swear, it kept saying without words. Once you steal what you need.

Shh. Shh, Jon. Soft and silent reminders when he sank to his knees before the door, slipping the makeshift tension wrench into the bottom of the keyhole and applying pressure and torque to the top, don’t breathe. Don’t make a sound. 

_Click._

He could have sobbed and nearly did at the promise, the _pull_ of the statements just beyond. Quietly, he turned the knob, breath shaky and barely there, only to be pushed down to the floor, pinned, a cold muzzle pressed hard into his temple. 

“Should’ve known.” Dizzy, uncertain of which way was up, Jon let Basira shove his face into the tile. He’d lost his chance. His one chance. She’d never let him leave his room now. Office. 

His office. 

“Basira! Stop, stop--” Daisy’s voice, angry, and he braced himself for the knife at his throat that would surely come next. 

Who would dig his grave? 

“Just stop. What are you doing?” 

“ _Jon_.” His name was spat like a curse and despite the derision it was heaven to hear his name spoken aloud because he was still Jon. After all this. She could still call him Jon even when he disappointed her over and over and over. He needed to be better than this. “He picked the lock. Trying to get in.” Defeated, he lay there, hungrier now for how close he’d gotten, sure that if she let him up, he wouldn’t be able to stand. 

“Okay.” Unsteady, she knelt beside them. “Well, you got him. He’s stopped.” To prove her point, Basira bounced his head off the floor before removing her knee from between his shoulder blades. “Jon?” Soft, punctuated by swiftly retreating footsteps. The way she said it was so soft he got lost in it. “Damn it, you’re burning up.” And that couldn’t be right at all because he was colder than he’d ever been. “Jon.” His eyes had closed, opened again when she called to him, when her calloused thumb rubbed over the sharp bone of his cheek. “You’ve got to help me here, Jon.” 

“Wi’what?”

“Gotta get up.” 

“How?” No. That’s. That wasn’t what he meant to ask. Daisy was confused, manhandling him a little to get him propped against the wall. “Was quiet.” Understanding flooded her face. 

“Your sneaking set off the Hunt. Like you were Prey.” She swallowed. “It’s like I, like I could taste it.” 

“Mm.” She butted up to his side, forced his arm over the back of her neck. 

“You need to help me. I can’t lift you on my own.” Certain he wasn’t much use he nevertheless gave it his best, and like always was found lacking. It took too long to get his feet under him and they were both trembling with exertion by the end and he couldn’t fathom moving another centimeter but she forced him along, past his office and into a room that smelled of petrichor, of wet earth and decay. “I know. It’s, you’re okay, Jon.” He really didn’t think so, but she was dropping him on a familiar cot and lifting his shoulders onto her thighs, touching his face, his neck, checking his pulse and that was probably a good idea considering. “How long have you been sick like this?” 

“S’sick?” It hurt to think, his failures not looked kindly upon by his deity and breathing was becoming a chore. “Not, m’not sick.” This was fine, the most comfortable he’d been in a long time. He could lay here in her lap for an eternity if she’d let him. 

“You need a statement.” Hearing it said so plainly it was difficult to deny and Jon felt his face twist up in agony, in hopeless exhaustion, and a beseeching sob forced its way past his lips even as he tried desperately to stop it. 

“ _Please_.” They’d been together in the Too Close I Cannot Breathe, there was nothing left hidden between them and no reason for him to lie, not to the only other person that had even an _idea_ of what he was struggling with. 

Jon expected to be left here while Daisy went to plead on his behalf. What he didn’t expect was the statement of Daisy Tonner regarding a stretch of time in the Buried. 

A _live_ statement. 

It hurt in a way that felt like overindulging, as though it had been so long without real food he’d forgotten for a moment how to cope, but ever the eager teacher, the Eye threw open the door and let the Knowing pour in. As minutes passed with him entranced in her statement and the winding tape of a recorder, Jon was suffused with warmth, the chill in his bones eased away by the unwavering current of her voice. 

He didn’t want this. He didn’t want to haunt Daisy’s dreams nor could he stop himself from drinking down every delectable drop of fear and while she remained steady, Jon felt tears gather and fall, slipping silently over his feverish skin because it was all too much, his want, his need, his _weakness_ , and he was grateful she didn’t seem to mind, just swept them away as quick as they came. 

“Daisy, it’s. It isn’t _like_ that.” Basira’s exasperation jolted him awake and Jon found himself pleasantly loose, cradled in a dazed and drunken stupor and free for the first time in ages of insatiable craving.

“Then explain.” 

“It’s the only way he can be trusted. If I have the statements--”

“You can control him.” He was floating along on the thread of their conversation, the warm, heavy feeling like he’d just finished a very delicious holiday meal surrounded by people he could call friends made him equal parts sick and relieved. Daisy’s statement lingered pleasantly, tingling in the tips of his fingers and distancing him from such messy things like shame and embarrassment. 

“He can be useful.” Yes, he liked that. To be useful. Was good to be useful and Jon wanted to be good. 

“Basira, the. The hunger, it doesn’t work that way.” He shook his head, strung out on this terrible, wonderful euphoria. 

“You seem to be handling it.” Her laugh was bitter and cruel. “Maybe you’re just stronger than he is.” Yes. Daisy was strong. In all the ways he could never hope to be. Of course the Hunt wasn’t getting to her like the Eye did him. 

“No. My.” Jon understood intimately and his heart broke for her, having to go through this hell and he covered her hand with one of his own where it rested over the gap his ribs left behind. “You can’t do that again.” 

“Daisy--” 

“ _No_. He’s not some. He’s not an _animal_ you can train into obedience.” He wanted to tell her it was okay, that Basira was doing the right thing, that he couldn’t be trusted, but his mouth wouldn’t form the words and his tongue was heavy behind his teeth, so glutted on fresh fear. “The only thing you were doing is starving him, using him up.” Her cool hand on his forehead was an anchor, a blessing.

“So it’s true then. He really is a monster.” 

Yes. 

“ _No_. Not any more than I am.” 

“Daisy,” Basira laughed, dismissive. “You’re. It’s different.” Jon let his eyes close. 

“It isn’t.” And Jon could tell by her tone it was a battle lost. “Look, he. He needs to sleep, eat something if he can. I’ll come find you.” 

“Daisy--” 

“ _I’ll come find you_.”

The smell of tea coaxed Jon awake again and he lay there, blissfully warm and completely relaxed beneath a blanket that smelled like Martin’s detergent. The strange, intoxicated feeling had receded into something more manageable and he felt better than he had in a long, long time and for a fleeting moment he thought it was Martin touching the back of his hand to his cheek. 

"Still too warm." Illusion shattered, Jon swallowed past a tangle of hot and unwanted emotions to clear his throat long enough to speak. 

"Din't have to do that." 

"Wouldn't have been much left if I hadn't." When he sat up he was only marginally dizzy, a brief second where the room failed to move around him at the same time. "Owed it to you."

"I'm sorry." That it happened, that at the time he'd wanted it to. That Daisy would have to put up with him in her dreams and here and he wouldn't saddle anyone with himself if he could help it. She was sitting near his feet, all origami folds and the frail strength of its paper wrapped, tucked, creased tight. He accepted the tea, thanked her for it and not for it when she pressed her sharp angles against his own knowing they would never fit just right but they fit well enough.

And thought of Martin.


End file.
